we are on the edge

of a burning metropolis . . .

a candle suffocated

within a megawatt lightbulb . . .

a siren screaming

from the inside of a funhouse mirror . . .

we are at the gate

of the den of thieves,

where the mystic

is stabbed with a smile,

where the carrot looms large

to the myopic vision

of a generation chasing its own tail,

dancing to the rhythm of a distant drummer,

who is now blind

and staggering towards the cliffs . . .